My kind of fast food

I had huge craving for chicken curry one day and only half an hour to spare...so here it is. It won't look like this, but it's going to be GOOD, and you'll have time to watch half a Battlestar Galactica episode, shave your legs, and play fifteen games of Scrabulous (bastards!).



Speedy Chicken Curry

2 chicken thighs, boneless and skinless, and *organic, chopped into bite-sized pieces
1 small onion, unevenly chopped
2 cloves of garlic, peeled and crushed or minced
2 tsps of canola oil
1/4 tsp chili powder
1/4 tsp coriander powder
1/4 tsp garam masala
1/2 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp black pepper

Saute onion over medium high heat for a few minutes, add garlic, give it about 30 seconds, add meat bits and stir! let cook until pieces are no longer pink, then add all spices, stir for a few minutes, lower heat a bit, cover and cook for about 10 minutes. It's done! I stirred in day-old millet into this (so I wouldn't lose any delicious gravy) and ate it like I was being chased by ravenous wolves. Enjoy.






*This was going to be a posting about how I found chicken feather quills in my boneless organic chicken thighs, but instead, I'm going to recommend that you read this. Then you'll be able to spin a lovely story about how the chicken got to live a long happy life eating grain, poking around in cow poop (there are lovely worms in there), and sprouting tough, well-fed, adventuring feathers that followed him to his death. Otherwise, you'll probably imagine that undocumented worker #4549, whose job it was to pluck out the chicken feather quills, fell into the deboning machine, and then lou dobbs and the Minute Men danced on his bloody, illegal corpse.

Rebrand!

Or face irrelevance.

The black sheep will be queen!

I was crossing Park Ave. today on 22nd street and I saw me at age 14. She was tall (the only difference) and wearing awkwardly tight (and unflattering) jeans that cut into her babyfat waist with a too-short but not skanky t-shirt (the kind you're always yanking down because you just realized it shrank that morning and nothing else was clean or you unwisely thought it would be fine and it would only ride up when you were standing, and who stands nowadays?) with a mouth full of braces and long, lank, flatly curly hair with frizzy bangs. I don't think I ever looked like that, but I felt like that every day. I felt a visceral pang of recognition and I wanted to swoop over her like a clucking mother hen and protect her from mockery and the waves of low self-esteem. But instead of being gangling and friendless, she was walking with a bunch of other kids who looked like her and looked like they liked her. Brand new world, what?

It's too bad the American Apparel dude didn't try harder to tap into this awkward-is-hot because normal-is-hot ethos. I suppose the the urge to put a tiny girl into a boring lollipop/kneesock/bubblegum bareass pose must be impossible to resist, so they've done one smart ad and the rest is all boring, softcore dreck.

It's taken me until my 30s to feel comfortable enough to wear whatever I wanted and to really not give a shit what anyone thought (most of my life has been blustering bravado, fashion-wise), so I felt proud when I saw that inelegant girl on the street. Even if she was cutting herself and daydreaming of some blond highschool jock in her bedroom every night, she looked great and embraced her weirdness. Hoorah for the modern woman!

Day 3

Work is a dank, stinking place. But the 3rd floor bathroom smelled like disinfectant, fresh and clean. That must mean that you, shiny, are the purveyor of #3. Sick. We got a real crouchdown today, which is always fun. I was a cranky-ass BITCH in response. Also always fun. I also went to Trader Joe's and bought two bottles of wine. I'm sending these bastards the bill for my liver transplant in 30 years.

So, I'm 'bucking' the system by finding 9 new timewasters to replace Scrabulous. Fascists, you better recognize. You cut off one head and 9 more will rise up to replace it as a glorious example of mixed metaphor and the indefatigable spirit of an exhausted but fucking bitter work population.

1. Play word games

2. Find a Bodum Chambord 12-Ounce Coffee Press.

3. Find for a perfect recipe for Fattoush

4. Debating the merits of vegetarianism, for the umpteenth time. Reserved this book at the library, because I'm all about libraries. And not giving those fools any of my money. But I am interested in reading anyone who calls soda "Liquid Satan."

5. Speaking of that.

6. Listen to some free music.

7. Write your novel. Except write it on Google docs or something like that, because having an intellectual property conflict with the company you're trying to escape by writing a novel involves too many levels of tears and irony.

8. Save the world. Free Rice!

9. Memorize this. I dare you.

Days without Shine

In case you are interested, this is how Black Monday went.

* There were two hours spent with the door closed.
* There was one unidentifiable lean cuisine smell.
* There was one unflushed 3rd floor bathroom poop.
* There were 17 longing looks cast at shiny's dark office door

Day Two, Much Blacker Tuesday, isn't looking much better.

* They took scrab from us
* They're trying to take blogger from us, but it's probably a violation of our first amendment rights. I mean, your first amendment.
* The coffeemaker is empty and burning

Maybe when you get back, there will be a card table and a legal pad where your office used to be. I'll be in an INS detention center, but I'm sure they'll have visiting hours. A-devil, read ahead in your immigration law textbook and come get me out of jail. I already have fifteen teardrops tattooed on my face.

You and Candy Mountain

I find that watching this once a day vastly improves one's chance of staying sane.

If you want to take this is an adorable, if dark, bit of video cheer, fine. I chose to believe that this must have been created by someone who has uncovered the essential truth underlying capitalist society. Sometimes workers work because of incentives. Sometimes, they work because they are tricked, lured by pink and purple lies, forced to travel down perilous paths and do things they never would have dreamed of doing while they were dozing in Candy Meadow, and finally, they are robbed of the one thing they have that is truly their own. Goodbye, kidney-shaped hope!

Milestones

I've been smoke-free for a year! Hoorah! Honestly, after the horrendous shaking withdrawals, crying, learning how to drink without smoking, and general sadnesses of the first three months, the rest of this year has been pretty damned good and it hasn't been that hard not to smoke.

I don't know what this chick and I have in common other than we both wear bras that are too small. Ugh. Nonsmokers are so annoying.

Why can't people just be honest? It was fucking hard and smoking was great. That being said, my breath is not filled with ashes now. And sometimes it tastes like mint and tea tree oil. (I'm still finding macerated bits of wood in various purses from my tea tree oil-flavoured toothpick phase.) My room smells good, I can walk up flights and flights of stairs, and the weird darkness on both of my baby toenails is gone. I didn't gain weight, and I don't fear chest-rattling bronchitis every time I get a cold. If you were funny when you smoked, you'll still be funny when you quit, you'll just have two hands to use for physical humour and gesticulation instead of one and a wry cigarette. Oh, and your hangovers are just hangovers; no heavy chest to go with sore head and quease.
The best thing? You can still understand Maxine's humour as a nonsmoker.

The Rapture can't come quickly enough....

Just to let you know that we're still in hell and handbasket mode, sex robots are the new black. From an article in Der Speigel:

"Levy (ed. artificial intelligence expert, a.k.a hardcore gamer) is convinced that women, in particular, after initial misgivings, will welcome robots as an alternative to their sweaty husbands. The fact that their sexual appetites often go well beyond the mediocre performance of many men is reflected in the "staggering sales figures" for vibrators, says Levy.
...
Men are willing to "have sex with inflatable dolls," says Henrik Christensen, the coordinator of the European Robotics Research Network. It'll be easy to do one better than that. According to Christensen, "anything that moves will be an improvement.""

Even though humans have had a long and varied relationship with mechanized sex implements, I'm guessing it's still going to take a certain kind of person to choose sex with a robot (even if she can blink) over sex with a human. It reminds me of Dave Chappelle saying this: "You're not going to get some monkey pussy on Tuesday and on Thursday be like, I'm going to call Charlene." Once you start dating Roboblink 2005, I think you're out of the human pussy game altogether. If this seems crude, just think of the technology, brainpower, R&D money that is being poured into this project, all because men want to avoid talking to women. I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that robot-cuddler has always been outside of the dating pool anyway. Maybe scientist dude wants to create a robot woman because real women are disgusted by real men a lot of the time, which I really can't disagree with. What with the wars, gun violence, and robot vaginas. ugh.

What a dork dreams...

My alarm clock is set to NPR. If you knew me 10 years ago, you would have know that I needed two alarms, one halfway across the room, and the other, loud and honking, right beside my ear. But since the elderly are light sleepers...I now wake up to the gentle sounds of world news delivered in quiet, respectful tones. So, Nicolas Sarkozy was in town, and they're talking about it on NPR, and I'm interested, but it's 6:58 and so I'm also interested in sweet sleep. I ended up having the most awesome dream. I was to address the U.N. General Assembly because someone really important asked me to give the preamble to Sarkozy's speech, basically a short history of France. So I'm thinking to myself, hmm, I wonder if I can overcome my fear of public speaking before this speech thingie in a few minutes (Ms. Entitlement Jones never questioned that she was the most qualified to deliver a treatise on the awesomeness of France), and with the wonderful relativity of time of dreams, I really was about to conquer that fear. But at at the last moment, they decided it was a security risk and my services weren't needed. And I had a few friends in the audience (like my jazz-dance recital when I was twelve) who were seriously bummed that I didn't get to speak. I think the Ayatollah Khomeini might have been there too, and behind it all. Stop oppressing women from the grave.

Razors of love

the speech bubble says, "i dig my toes into the sand the ocean looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a big blue blanket." so true.

Sometimes I feel conflicted about graffiti, you know when some poor nona has to spend her fixed-income money to get rid of the huge penis that someone has painted on her garage-door? But not this morning. When I walk down the stairs of the G train (usually hurtling down the stairs because my entrance to the G is on the short side of the tracks) there's a new poster right at the bottom of the stairs that I actually have to avert my eyes from, because it causes a physical reaction. It's a huge K-Rock ad, featuring the band Incubus. I hate this band so much, but maybe I hate that guy's face even more, with his blank, bland look (at least look guilty for making such horrible music) and his horrible ear plugs. Well, this morning, some had razored his face out. Just his face. The rest of the band was intact, everything else was fine, and the poster wasn't even tagged. Major joy, and that never happens on a Monday morning.

Put the razor down, soul mate, and call me.

Prodigal shame

It's hard to get back on the horse...so I'll just say that everything is good, still smoke-free, still watching Murder She Wrote on a Sunday night. I've been cooking a lot more, so here's a good recipe for the cooling weather.

Dhal

• 1½ cup moong beans (red lentils, masoor dhal)
• 2 garlic cloves
• 2 slice ginger
• 1 tablespoon chopped cilantro
• 1 tablespoon turmeric
• ½ teaspoon cayenne
• 1½ teaspoon salt
• 1½ teaspoon lemon juice
• 3 tablespoon ghee
• 1 pinch asafoetida (optional)
• 1 teaspoon whole cumin seeds

Put beans in large pot, add 5 cups water. Bring to a boil. Remove froth & add garlic, ginger, cilantro, turmeric, cayenne. Simmer for 1 1/2 hours, stirring occasionally. When beans are soft, add salt & lemon juice. In a skillet, heat ghee (olive oil if you don't want to use clarified butter!). When hot, add asafoetida & cumin. Pour oil over the dhal & serve

I'm back!

So kiss the ring? No, there was a whole mixup with various blogs, one identity being split, horcrux-like between many blogs...so like the good 77-year-old woman afraid of technology that I am, I decided to retreat from the threat of the internets and do some luddite things instead. So I've been doing work at work for a change, crossword puzzles, still not smoking (what what!), and trying to perfect my downward dog. Clearly that was boring as all hell...

Is there a Moral Majority in the Lake of Fire?

Because he spent most of his life suggesting that gays, women seeking abortions, Tinky Winky, atheists and Muhammed were going to hell, I sincerely hope that Jerry Falwell had a chance, in the split second second before his huge, congested heart stopped, to reflect upon his life full of vitriol and hate and wonder if he was headed in that direction too.

Farewell, Falwell (Ha ha, alliteration puns. What a perfect parting gift for a hated man, my most hated form of humour.) , you crazy bastard. I hope you made some people happy in your lifetime because for a lot of people, you were a a beacon of racism, religious intolerance, and insanity. But hopefully your dog and grandchildren liked you.

I have to believe this is not true.

Apparently smoking and drinking coffee protects you from Parkinson's disease. How can this be?!!
I know that compared to smoking-related diseases, Parkinson's is quite rare. And it might have something to do with dopamine: the great neurotransmitter associated with food, sex, drugs, etc. People who develop Parkinson's tend to have a low-level of dopamine-creating cells in the brain, and consumption of coffee and cigarettes (that sounds so nice) stimulates dopamine production. Does that then mean that depressed people (sigh), who sometimes have an imbalance in their dopamine levels, also have a greater chance of developing Parkinson's?!

Couldn't they hide that little scientific finding? Don't give smokers any more reasons not to quit, for god's sake.

Clearly, day 46 of quitting smoking has been a hard one for me. I'm double-fisting coffee.

Read the article here.

In Memoriam

I remember reading Cat's Cradle when I was about 14, and I barely understood all the allegory and strange flights of fancy, but I have always been a science geek/groupie, so I really dug it. There was a collection of short stories too, Welcome to the Monkey House, that I loved. Mostly because there was a seriously mushy love story called "Long Walk to Forever" that I made everyone I knew read; I remember that my sappy-hearted friend E.A. cried her eyes out... I just read an article in the Post in which Vonnegut said that he wished more adults read his books. So in his honour, I just bought Slaughterhouse-Five and will read it and love it as an adult. Anyways, because he was a great writer, irreverent, and brilliant, he will seriously be missed. Hope you're hanging out with spacemen, Kurt.

Dark Victory, or a list of good things from the past 12 hours.

yes, i know this is from Now, Voyager.

I like Dark Victory because of all the cool smoking and melodrama. Just because I quit smoking doesn't mean that I don't still love it. (Pause to pop a Commit lozenge in my mouth.)

I like the candy that has a hard candy/utensil that you lick and dip into a bunch of crystalline, flavoured sugar. Lick, dip, tweak!

I opposite-of-like puns (shut up to boyfriend, Blackfoot, and Will), lamb cooked in any form (sorry, newly-risen Jesus, for eating your flock) and any perfume that is supposed to smell like the 'Orient'.

I like Nightmare on Elm Street and flan and maybe, I like the Sopranos a little bit.

I thought that my first blog after having my identity corrupted by Google's lame bid to take over the world would be hard to write, but I forgot that I just have to talk about myself.

I like talking about myself.

It burns!

Things that give me a burning sensation:


1. Commit lozenges
2. Park Slope


Because no one gets tired of Park Slope douchebag stories...I was sitting on the 5th ave bus (urgh) and the twat next to me was talking on his cell to a 'friend' (like he has friends with his adidas tearaway pants and Muscle Milk (I tried to peek inside his shopping bag for confirmation of douche status; that's what I imagine was inside)) about how his other friend's girlfriend was 'SO annoying'? Why was she SO annoying, you ask? Well, apparently she looked like trailer trash trying to look posh (for Park Slope?) and even though she had been to Europe, she had the gall to order 'pie-ella' at a Spanish restaurant. Muscle Milk's girlfriend was horrified. I was horrified that he had a girlfriend. What's more, he was apparently shopping for a ring for her today. So if anyone out there is a snob about paella and is dating a snotty loser with no neck and a bag full of steroids, watch out. You have a lifetime of bus passes and misplaced elitism waiting for you.

Yeah, I'm a chronic eavesdropper/judgmentalizer...what of it?

clambering to the top of the moral high ground...out of breath

lame, I know. But maybe it was cigarettes that made me cool?






I just quit smoking. 4 days! Doesn't sound that impressive? Well, it's not. But it's something.

Things I am grateful for (not an AA-higher power way):

1. Super-great smelling room
2. Sarah not getting lung cancer (I bet her stupid rotten tooth was because I smoked) 3. Only 10 years until my lungs are almost all healed, hoorah!
4. That if I ever make it to 80, I'm totally going to start smoking again. And maybe I might develop a hardcore drug addiction. I totally thought of this before stupid Alan Arkin. I would never wear a leather vest. 5. Commit™ lozenges. Though they taste like poison, they are precious to me.
6. Crossword puzzles. I do them to occupy myself, obsessively. My mind will be a well-honed ('hone' is a very good crossword word, as is, strangely, the German city Essen) Trivial-Pursuit fighting machine! 6-letter word for not just a river in Egypt.

At any rate, another one of my very closest friends had a baby. Clark! Welcome. Wilkommen, as in Essen. We love you with your perfectly-round head, swirly hairline, and oily eyelids. You were the same day I quit smoking, so stop being so self-centered and focus on me. You would if you could focus, you little underachiever.

Apocalypse watch: Sign #23249

I think I'll watch the skies for the rain of fire after reading this.

Resolutions

No, I'm not quitting smoking...quite yet. But I do resolve to blog more, just for my own sense of consistency and responsibility. And also my loyal readership (2. Small, but vocal!) is scandalized at my slackerness.

So I've really been trying new things lately. Like yoga almost every day, a financial budget for the first time in my life (v. pathetic) so that's good, right? I thought about trying to be a nicer person and not write mean emails about amputees on the subway who take off their prosthetic legs and then talk about their raging infection sites, but then I realized that it was my horrifyingly confused Christian upbringing rearing its ugly head again so I beat it into quietude. Resolution #34242: Suppress Christian upbringing more regularly.

Om, shanti shanti.